


The Winchester Problem

by SamThursday



Series: Of Peasants and Princes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Apologies for Crappy Naming of Places, Baby Winchesters, Gen, Minor John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Teen Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamThursday/pseuds/SamThursday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, Sheriff Azazel is going to die bloody.</p>
<p>(Prologue to an AU Series which is currently a WIP.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winchester Problem

~Twenty One Years Ago~

No one had expected the attack, especially not at this early hour of the morning.

The tinny clang of steel on steel rang through the hallways of the Sheriff of Lawrenshire's stone castle. Frantic fists pounded on the door of the Captain of the Guard's residence, and hastily John of Winchester sprang from bed, throwing on his boots and tunic and seizing his sword. As he rushed out the door, he turned back to his wife, Mary, daughter of the Sheriff, whose fear was carefully hidden in the depths of her brave blue eyes. 

"Lock the door, love, and take the boys and hide. I'll be back soon."

"Be safe, John."

Those were the last words they spoke to each other.

Mary took her husband's advice, slipping the bolt on the heavy oak door of their residence and hurrying to the room her children shared. The boys were awake, startled by the noise. Four-year old Dean was quiet, the green eyes he locked with his mother's blown wide in fear, while in his little cradle, the baby, Sam, wailed, upset and uncomprehending. Mary whispered softly, gathering her tiny infant in one arm. The other she placed on Dean's little shoulder, one gesture both comforting and guiding with authority. 

A loud bang echoed as someone outside their rooms sought to force entry. Another, this time accompanied by a terrifying crack. The door was already weakening, and whoever was outside would not be confined out there for long. Mary hurried her boys into her bedroom, ushering Dean into the large wardrobe and placing Sam in his small but willing arms, and motioning for him to keep as quiet as possible. 

She kissed her babies softly, and then shut and locked the door, leaving them in close, warm darkness. John had left a dagger on the bedside table, which Mary took in hand, bravely preparing to face the intruders. 

John's men had lost the fight. John's father-in-law, Sheriff Samuel Cambell, had been killed half an hour ago, gutted in the main hall by the enemy leader, Azazel. These were Prince Lucifer's men, which must mean that the prince had won the war for the throne against his brother, Michael. In which case, John's career in the army was effectively over. He shouted at his men to retreat, and hurried to his quarters to find his young family and run from the castle. 

John found his residence broken into, and four of Azazel's men within. One had his sword buried in Mary's chest. Fire exploded in John's lungs, behind his eyes, in his throat, and within in ten minutes not one of the men was left alive. 

Then he wanted nothing more than to collapse beside Mary's bleeding body and die, but footsteps pounding through the hall kept him grounded in horrible reality. And somewhere in his bedroom, baby Sam was crying. Throwing down his sword, John unlocked the wardrobe and wordlessly scooped his children into his arms, darting out the door and down the hall, with a gaggle of guards hot on his heels. 

~Present Day~

A tiny frog croaked from somewhere in the trees.

Dean's face remained impassive as he scanned the storeroom from the safety of the forest underbrush, where the lush greenery and black night shadows hid him from view. Three, four, five guards he counted, but that appeared to be all. A small smirk ghosted across his face. Four of Governor Azazel's imbeciles were no match for two Winchesters, he thought, as he slipped soundlessly back into the gloom of the forest to rejoin his brother. 

Sam was waiting at their appointed meeting spot, rocking back and forth on his heels impatiently while carefully keeping to the shadows. At Dean's arrival his face brightened, and he stilled. Dean didn't say a word, but he held up all five fingers of his right hand. Sam nodded in clipped affirmation, and ran through one last check of his weapons as Dean did the same. 

Dean's arming sword was a simple weapon, but sharpened to a lethal double edge it was powerful and versatile in the young man's skilled hands. He carried it slung across his back, a comforting weight pressing through the weather beaten black leather of the jerkin that had at one time been his father's. Two throwing axes were stashed at his waist, beside the small dagger Dean used in close-range situations. The elder Winchester preferred a man-to-man (or, as was the case many a time, man-to-men) battle in which he could make full use of his excellent fighting skills.

Sam just liked to get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible. To this effect, he favoured a longbow, which right now was hanging from his back, along with a full quiver of home-made arrows. He didn't carry as many weapons as his brother, his only other being the small falchion which hung from his belt in its sheath. Sam was both proud of and intrigued by his blade, in particular by the etching of magic runes which ran along its blunt edge, the source and meaning of which still remaining a mystery to both brothers.

Their clothes were home-made, sewn by their own hands, and while they were not of a particularly fine stitch, they were tough and served the boys' needs well. Their boots and belts were the only things they wore which they had not made themselves, save for of course Dean's black jerkin. 

Beneath the beaten jerkin, Dean wore a long sleeved tunic of dusty green, complete with hood. His woolen trousers bunched at the knee and tucked into tall brown boots. Around his neck hung a gold amulet Sam had given him years ago, when they had both been young children, and though he'd never say as much, Dean held it more precious than even Dad's old jerkin.

Sam's attire was similar: a short brown tunic of wool with wide sleeves which ended at his elbows, over a longer sleeved linen undershirt to help fight off the cold night air. Thick gloves with half the length of the fingers cut off guarded his hands from being scraped raw when he used his bow.

With a last wordless communication, both slipped off in the direction Dean had just come, headed for Azazel's newest storeroom. 

 

The two guards of the outer perimeter were easy game; they never expected the blows which struck them unconscious. Within minutes they were securely bound to a tree, so silently that their colleagues, about fifty feet away, noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Now a dilapidated fence, a wide stretch of open field, and the other three guards surrounding it were all that separated them from the small barn that was their goal. Dean and Sam exchanged looks, and Sam notched another arrow, which flew straight through the night air, finding a chink in the man's armour near his left armpit. He fell with a cry.

The other two guards spun around in surprise, to see the two tall figures bearing down on them with alarming speed. Sam reached his man first, and seconds later the guard lay sprawled on the ground, a swelling purple lump on his forehead where the hilt of Sam's falchion had caught him. Dean dealt with the last guard in a similar fashion.

Throwing open the barn doors, the brothers took a moment to gaze at the object of tonight's escapade with satisfaction. Along the far wall was stacked a double row of large sacks containing grain - which to the poor these days was more valuable than silver. Dean grinned. 

"I'll go get the cart and horses. We're gonna need to haul all this out of here before morning." He left the barn, making his way back to the woods, where their horses and one of Bobby's wagons were carefully hidden.

Meanwhile, Sam located the guard in whose shoulder he had buried his arrow. The man was unconscious, upon a closer inspection the wound Sam had inflicted didn't appear very damaging. Good. Sam hadn't meant to kill anyone tonight. Carefully he removed his arrow, wiped it on the grass, and returned it to his quiver. Then he tore a strip of fabric from the hem of the man's tunic, which he used to bind the wound. The guard’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned in pain which quickly turned to fear when he saw Sam's hazel eyes looking down at him. 

"No, p-please, I don't- I can't-"

Sam placed a finger to his own lips, silencing the man's panicked pleas. "Relax. You're not going to die tonight. I want you to take a message from us to Azazel."

The guard nodded, whimpering in terror. Sam's eyes glinted as he continued. "Remind him that the sons of John Winchester are still in command of this county."

Dean, who had returned with the cart, moved behind his kneeling brother and stared hard into the trembling guard's eyes. 

"And tell Azazel we'll have his murdering head on a stick - soon."

The guard was blindfolded and bound, and left leaning against the rough wooden wall of the barn as the cart, heavy laden with stolen grain, creaked away into the night.

 

~Five Years Earlier~

Azazel should never have let John Winchester and his sons escape the night he had taken command of Lawrenshire. The man had been a thorn in the Sheriff’s side since day one, turning to a life of crime in some pathetic attempt to avenge his wife’s death. The theft of the prince’s goods along forest roads was an irritation, though if that had been John’s only crime Azazel could have handled the situation. But John had spent the last sixteen years inciting rebellion and hatred among the county peasantry, and it was for this reason that the price on John’s head was as high as it was. But now John Winchester’s aggravating existence would be brought to an end, and the thought made Azazel smile in satisfaction. 

John’s two sons knelt on the floor of Azazel’s office, their hands chained behind them. The younger, Samuel, a tall, slender boy of sixteen, was glaring pure hatred straight into the Sheriff’s face, his smooth jaw jutting in mulish anger. The elder, Dean, wore an expression which married defiance and mockery into such an aggravating smirk Azazel found his hand itching to beat the young man’s face to a bloody, swollen mess. 

“Sam, Dean,” Azazel forced his face into a smile and rose from his desk so that he was standing imposingly over his prisoners. “Haven’t you boys grown since last I saw you?”

“Go to hell, you fucking pretender,” Sam replied through gritted teeth. Azazel laughed. The boy was certainly bold, but so easily angered – the pleasure Azazel found in stoking his rage almost made up for the madly infuriating expression Dean wore as he pretended to ignore the Sheriff entirely, bright hazel eyes wandering around the room, humming tunelessly in what Azazel knew was an effective attempt to tempt him into losing his control.

Nevertheless, it distracted Azazel from replying to Sam’s impertinence, and that further angered the Sheriff. Breathe. Retain control. 

“You’ll be a pair of strong, fine men one of these days. Well, you would be, if you weren’t going to hang tomorrow. Pity,” he leered at Sam, who snarled and fought fruitlessly against his manacles. 

“Your loss,” Dean shrugged, speaking for the first time. “Lawrenshire’s gonna be about four shades uglier without our handsome faces. Ain’t that right, Sammy?” He grinned at his brother, but his look must have contained something else, too, because suddenly a large part of Sam’s anger seemed to drop away. Though the younger boy still shot daggers at Azazel with his eyes, his lips now curled up in smirk that matched Dean’s.

Azazel silently cursed both the brats, and then Dean once again, just for good measure.

“Hanging is a nasty business,” Azazel began, circling Sam but keeping his eyes fixed on Dean. “Takes quite a while for a person to strangle, you know. Even a thin, young neck like your brother’s takes a while to stretch.” Dean’s amused expression began to harden even as his face paled ever so slightly. 

There was the button Azazel had been looking for. He pressed on. “I imagine it won’t be a pleasant sight, Sammy here wriggling and choking like a fish on a hook.” Another shade of colour drained from Dean’s face, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Satisfaction washed over Azazel in soothing waves.

“Of course, that’s if we placed the knot here,” he gripped Sam by the boy’s mop of brown hair, angling his face downwards and placing a finger at the nape of his neck, over his spine. Sam flinched at the touch, and Dean was now enraged. “Of course, if we were to tie it here,” his finger slid to the side of Sam’s neck, just beneath his jaw, while the young prisoner squirmed angrily. “It would make the process quicker. Just one big ‘snap’ and it would all be over.” On making the sound, Azazel abruptly yanked on the hair in his grasp, jerking Sam’s head painfully to the side.

Dean snapped like his brother’s imaginary neck. “Alright, you win, you perverted son of a bitch. Now get your fucking hands off him.” Dean’s voice was low, shaking with fury.  
Azazel laughed. “Of course, we might not get to see Sam hang as soon as we’d like. Not if your dad shows his face between now and dawn.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“It won’t even be that hard for him to bust you out. You won’t be that well-guarded. That is, of course, until you get into the courtyard…”

Sam had caught now on, as well. “Leave him alone, Sheriff.”

“Gladly, Sam, but I doubt he’ll be able to do the same for you and Dean. Take them to their cell. I’ll see you in the morning, boys.”

 

True to Azazel’s prediction, their father did come for them. Dean had never doubted he would. 

“Dad, you have to get out of here. This is a trap for you.”

John just looked at Dean, with a mischievous smile that was maybe a little sad, too. “I know, son.”

Oh, shit, then.

They met a large party of guards in the courtyard, as Azazel said they would. But John knew Azazel better than most, and Dean had to hand it to his father for planning a counter to the Sheriff’s plan. 

The nearest exit was the small south gate, which opened into the town, where Dean, Dad, and Sam could have easily made a quick escape. So, naturally, the greatest number guards covered that particular route. 

John didn’t bother trying to fight their way through, but lead the boys on the path of least resistance, which was back the way they had come and to the left, dashing up the stone stairway to the top of the castle’s outer wall, where the lone guard quickly found himself flying down the steps into his fellows, who were quickly giving chase. 

John had apparently guessed this course would be necessary, as Dean judged by the large coil of rope he’d worn over one shoulder. One end he noosed and looped around a jutting stone, the rest tossed over the parapet to dangle over the green bank of the hill.

“Sam, you first. Don’t argue.” John’s younger son shut his mouth quickly, cutting off a half-formed protest. He swung himself out over the wall and began to scale downwards as quickly as he could, while Dean and John defended their position from the guards. 

When Sam reached the bottom, John shouted for Dean to follow. Reluctant but obedient, the elder Winchester son left his father alone on the parapet, battling the oncoming attackers. When he was three quarters of the way down the wall, someone cut the rope. Dean cried out as he slipped, falling the remaining distance and landing hard on his back in the grass. He tumbled into Sam, and the two rolled partway down the hill in a tangle of long limbs. 

When they righted themselves, the brothers realized that the crowd up on the parapet had fallen disturbingly silent.

Suddenly Azazel’s laugh rang out, hard and cruel in the quiet of the dark morning. “Dean, Sam – I’ve got a gift for you.”

A shadowy form was tossed over the wall, landing with a spongy, sickening crunch on the dewy grass and rolling, as Sam and Dean had, a short ways down the hill.

They didn’t need to look any closer to know it was their father’s corpse, but that didn’t stop them from dashing towards him. Sam crumpled, angry tears shaking his slight frame as Dean bawled useless curses and insults at the now abandoned parapet from which John Winchester had just been thrown.

They buried him that same night in the forest that had been their home for sixteen years, and swore that one day, the same hands that buried their father would end Azazel’s life.

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly super original, I know, but this is fanfiction and I'm having fun. Hope you liked.


End file.
